


The Case of the Vanished King's Psalter

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: Sir Andrew Wainwright is confused, he is curator to the British Museum and one of the exhibits seems to have vanished into thin air. Of course there is only one man who can solve the mystery and this man is Sherlock Holmes. One shot!





	The Case of the Vanished King's Psalter

**Author's Note:**

> Again, though no warnings apply, be aware that this story contains references of substance abuse by the main character.

The case of the vanished King‘s Psalter

I had gotten up on the wrong foot, as people so aptly put it, and on this morning and in my case this meant that I was not just in a particularly foul mood, but also that I had literally twisted my injured leg, the scar in my upper thigh throbbing violently and making me limp as if I had been freshly wounded. It was the early April 1886 and the ever-changing and inconsistent weather was poison for my still fragile state of health. It also did not increase my mood in the slightest to see my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes inject himself on a by now daily basis, with the one or other addictive narcotic. It went against my every fibre to watch the spectacle ever so often, seeing this brilliant man slowly turning into a wreck, a shadow of his former self.

And so, on limping downstairs for my breakfast my already dismal mood was further darkened when Holmes bid me good morning with one of his lazy and languid smiles that stemmed from the recent dose of his seven per cent solution of cocaine. By the look of his eyes, that were unnaturally dilated, I was sure he had only recently succumbed the urge again to get another fix. I fumed inwardly. It slowly but surely became apparent, that the addiction my friend had developed got out of hand – and fast. Considering my short temper I had not my usual self-restraint and in a fit of anger, I answered: Good morning? What pray, is so good about this morning? The weather for certain is not!” It was currently pouring down heavily. “And finding a pathetic drug addict in ones sitting room isn’t good either.”

Lifting his eyes in something akin to surprise, Sherlock Holmes glanced at me, an amused smile playing on his thin lips – a smile that made me positively livid in its equanimity. Walking over to the fireplace, I took the small wooden box containing his hypodermic syringe and the small brown glass bottle of cocaine and decidedly flung it into the meagre fire. If Holmes was astonished by my tempestuous actions I could not tell. With a rather thoughtful expression, he watched the small case catch fire and did not even flinch as the glass of the syringe and the bottle burst from the heat with two loud cracks.

Sitting down on our dining table as my leg demanded a rest, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction mingled with a degree of shame for having lost my temper so. Moments later I felt Holmes’ hand on my shoulder, squeezing it: 

“Thank you, old friend. I fear with my habits I have turned into the sorcerer’s apprentice – denn die Geister die ich rief, werd ich nun nicht los.” His face had assumed a rueful expression as he sat down next to me. “But alas, a start is made and I might get through it eventually, I hope. Unless of course, it kills me.”

Considering the physical torture he would suffer by denying his body the drug and perhaps even die in the process, Sherlock Holmes was oddly cheerful in the face of it. But as it was, his serenity and willingness to at long last follow my advice had already increased my mood so much so, that I was willing to confront myself with the latest news. I had not read past the political part of the paper when our formidable landlady appeared with our breakfast and thus lifted my spirits even further.

Having slept badly the night before, I must have dozed off while smoking my obligatory after breakfast pipe with Holmes, sitting in front of the freshly stoked fire as I, when the doorbell sounded vigorous, was quite startled. 

“Ah, at last, a new case!” Holmes, who had some time ago wandered over to our bay window to watch the street below, stated, cheerfully rubbing his thin hands together.

“How can you be sure it is a client?” I asked drowsily, suppressing a yawn and then casting a quick glance at the clock, which showed twenty past ten.

“By the urgency of the ring,” was his wry answer. “Oh, and of course by the fact, that I have watched an extremely nervous man get out of a particularly shabby looking growler mounted by a horse, that only seems to be kept upright by its harness and the carriages drawbar. He paid the cabby far more than was his fare. - The driver was clearly surprised but did not argue, so it was not less money than was due to him, obviously. And by the speed with which he left, it must have been considerably more. Then our visitor… - Ah, here he comes himself.”

And indeed, an extremely agitated man in his late forties to early fifties entered our sitting room. He had an intelligent face, framed by grizzling side whiskers, where the rest of his hair was still its original colour of dark ashen blond. His dress was formal and rather plain and had a prim neatness to it, that showed him to be a gentleman. It was fairly apparent, that Mrs Hudson had, in the face of the rainy weather, taken care of his outerwear and so only his dark grey gaiters bore testimony of the whimsical weather so typical for this time of year.

Our visitor glanced from Holmes to me before he instinctively addressed the detective with polite sincerity under which his restlessness was barely hidden: “Mr Holmes, I have come here to ask for your help. This morning I have received the most serious shock and if you cannot help me, I might predict the most horrible scandal might ensue. For the moment I would prefer it to keep the police out of this matter, though I am not sure, whether I will have to have an official inquiry later on. But the matter is of the utmost delicacy I fear and I am quite at my wits end!”

How often had we by now heard almost these exact same words as a new client appeared on our doorstep to request the help of Sherlock Holmes? Often as a last resort of some mystery outside the interest of the police, or when an official investigation would be most mortifying.

“Very well, Mr Wainwright, curator of the British Museum,” Holmes smiled as the man’s jaw almost dropped in surprise. “Do take a seat by the fire – you no doubt have heard of my friend and colleague Doctor Watson, and then tell me, what is bothering you.”

With a small chuckle, our visitor sat down in the indicated wicker chair and enquired curiously: “I had not anticipated you had heard of me. We have certainly not met before, so how do you know me?”

“I don’t,” Holmes answered matter of factly, “but you happen to wear the museum's unofficial emblem on your watch chain – a small replica of the Thebes Ankh that lay foundation to the famous Egyptian collection your museum is so well known for. And with your clothes and the fact, that the Egyptian cross is made from actual gold, it is obvious you are not just a simple worker there. Judging by the looks of your sleeves and the state of your trouser knees, you are clearly to do more with administration than with archaeology – or history, as they tend to read more than they write. With you it is clearly the other way around – so you must be the curator. You have only recently taken over this position and there was an exposé in The Guardian some weeks back. If I remember it correctly your predecessor was made to leave after several cases of misappropriation. Your name was given as Sir Andrew Wainwright. So you see, there really is nothing to it.”

Sitting down himself Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his armchair, the tips of his fingers lightly tapping at one another as he carried on: “I presume your visit has something to do with your current special exhibition about Henry V and the Battle of Agincourt?”

This time it took a few instances before Sir Andrew nodded: “Yes, it has. Though admittedly it is beyond me, how you could possibly know this. The incident only happened this morning and I have some hopes, the news of it, have not yet reached outside of the museum.”

“Again it is quite a simple deduction to make. The top of an article that has appeared last Saturday as part of The Times’ feuilleton is peeking out from your coat pocket. And since it appears to have been stuffed in there hastily, it is an easy conclusion to draw, that your plight has something to do with it.”

“And as well, it is!” cried our visitor, pulling out the slip and straightened it.

“This,” Wainwright carried on, pointing at the black and white photograph that went with the article, “is the personal Psalter of Henry V, from which he supposedly took the inspiration for his famous speech to his men before the battle. Whether one believes this to be true or not, is not my business, however, and in reality, as it is with so many other things, it is not even certain, if it has been Henry’s book. At least it is likely. As you see, it was displayed such, that one of its most magnificent works of art was shown to the visitors – it obviously cannot be seen here, but this scene, depicting Saint Francis preaching to the animals is done in the most vibrant of colours. It is priceless.”

Sherlock Holmes at this point looked rather bored.

“I know, this does not seem important, but you must understand its value to understand the catastrophe that has come over us and the importance to have it returned as quickly as possible.”

“Returned? - So it has been stolen?” I gasped.

“Yes, it disappeared out of its showcase this morning.”

“Before or after the museum was opened?” Holmes asked, sitting ramrod straight now, his thin face eager and the eyes, that before breakfast had been so vacant, alert and attentive.

“After.” was the unfortunates man quiet reply. “It disappeared shortly after we had opened. Literally minutes after, as we have found its place empty even before ten. And we only open at half past nine. I reacted quickly and ushered everybody out of the room to lock it up, then came straight here.”

“There is no possibility, that it has been taken by the staff for any kind of scientific purpose?”

“None. I have one of two keys to the showcase and carry it with me at all times – and this makes me the only one within the museum.”

“Surely there must be some instances, where you part from it. Could someone have made a duplicate?”

“I do not think so. The showcase was specially made for the psalter and there are only two keys that go with it as said.” Wainwright pulled out his keys, which were attached to a silver watch chain that was fixed on a loop in the inner pocket of his coat. To my surprise there were only six keys all together – not many, considering his position. “This key is...”

“You said there are two keys, who has the second one?” Holmes interjected him.

“...that will be the book's owner.”

“Name?” 

“Lord Darby.”

Holmes’ eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he gave a small whistle. The man was known to be an eccentric and also to be a miser.

“I take it his Lordship has been paid a considerable sum for his lending this remarkable piece to the museum?”

“Yes. It has caused quite a discussion if we should spend such an amount of money on a piece that is only temporary in our possession.”

“The sum?” Sherlock Holmes asked impatiently.

“Twenty-five thousand Pounds.”

“That is indeed a substantial amount. And how long was the psalter to be in your possession?”

“For six months only. After that, we needed to re-evaluate if it was worth keeping it for any longer at that rate.” 

“Naturally. But I have just interrupted you as you wanted to explain your keys. - Please.”

Lifting his keys, Andrew Wainwright carried on: “As you see, I am not in the habit of carrying many keys with me, so I have a pretty good oversight where the few that I have on me are. These two are for my home and private safe, this is the key to the security lock at the museums side entrance, this one is for my office – also a secure lock and this key unlocks the cabinet in which all the keys for the various showcases are kept – each on their own hook and with their designated number. This last one is the key to this particular showcase.” he pointed at the photograph again. “Mr Holmes, I did not dare leave it behind, lest someone might take it – either accidentally or on purpose.”

With that, he handed the key over to Holmes, who had stretched out his hand to take a closer look at the implement. He examined it thoroughly from all sides, before handing it back to its owner and leaning back in his armchair he knitted his brows as if something irritated him and his right hand drummed impatiently on the armrest of his seat.

“Mr Wainwright, is there any particular reason, why you thought it safer to carry the key around with you?” he at last asked.

Sighing the man nodded, wiping his hand across his face in a gesture of desperation.

“About three weeks ago, when the psalter arrived, one of the assistants almost took it. I could just about keep him from leaving the room with it. He claims it had happened by accident, and I have actually believed him – well, up to this day, that is. At any rate, I saw the number under which the key was registered to be empty and on asking him he looked at it and admitted his mistake. Now I wonder about it.”

“Naturally. Is this man in today?”

“Yes. He was the one to discover the disappearance of the psalter and raised the alarm immediately.”

“Which makes it unlikely he has anything to do with it.” I mused.

“On the contrary, Watson, on the contrary.” was Sherlock Holmes’ pensive remark. “There is little to be achieved from here, so Doctor, if you are up to it, we will travel down to the British Museum. I had a mind going anyway some of these days. What else can a man do apart from sitting in front of his own fire with the weather as inclement as this?”

Having spoken so, in an burst of sudden activity the detective slipped into his overcoat before either Wainwright or I even had the time to react and so, a good half hour later, we ascended the stairs to the museums front entrance, the massive Ionian columns towering above us, dwarfing each and everyone in their shadow. Turning first towards the museum's library to our right, we passed the reading room and through a hidden door climbed up a set of stairs to exit the narrow corridor at yet another hidden door to enter the Agincourt- Exhibition on the first floor.

“It was put on the first floor on purpose, so it would be a more secure location than on the ground level, where we normally have our special exhibitions,” Wainwright explained, as he led us into the rather small room. I had expected something more spectacular, but the exhibition was almost disappointingly meagre and the presumably only piece of interest – Henry V Psalter – was conspicuous only through its absence. 

The showcase it had been displayed in, looked untouched and had it not been empty no-one would have been any the wiser that it had been tampered with. But so, as no glass was broken, no scratches on the lock to be seen and no marks on the wooden base detectable, only the missing book itself bore testimony to the crime committed. 

“Was it a busy morning?” Holmes asked, bending over the empty case and examining it carefully on the outside.

“It is never very busy on a Tuesday morning, especially not at this hour. We are currently thinking about postponing the opening hour to half-past ten instead of half past nine.”

“Can you remember who has been around at the time the book was taken?” 

Andrew Wainwright thought for a moment, then answered: “Well, there was Jacobs – that is the assistant I have spoken off – who discovered the theft, then there was Briggs, also an assistant, who was busy a little bit down the hall outside, and perhaps a handful of visitors in here and on the immediate outside.”

“Nothing conspicuous?” 

“Absolutely nothing. They all looked like decent people.”

Holmes smiled lopsidedly as he answered: “If one could determine a criminal only by his appearance, I would be out of work, Mr Wainwright. All the police would have to do is take them in and all is well. But as it is, one can never know. There can be the chap, who with his bend nose and bloodshot eyes looks the part, yet is the most honest man that walks the earth and then there can be the prettiest little woman with the face of an angle and a most endearing smile and yet a devil lurking behind this amiable façade. Was there anyone, in particular, you can recall?”

“No. Apart perhaps from the young woman and her baby. We rarely have young mothers and their infants in here.” 

“A woman and her baby? Did she carry it?” 

“No, she had a perambulator she was pushing.”

Again Holmes raised his eyebrows before turning to examine the whole of the room with scrutinising meticulousness. 

“Interesting, most interesting,” he muttered under his breath and not even I was sure whether he meant the one or other of the exhibits or some clue only he could make out with the aid of his magnifying glass. At long last, he begged for the key to unlock the showcase and then examined its inside also. 

The case was plain as to not distract from the magnificence of the psalter within, with framed crystal glass on the top and the four sides and the bottom covered in royal blue silk, King Henry’s Fleur de Lys embroidered on the bottom right corner in gold threads. The glass casing was attached to a solid wooden stand, which was fixed to the floor and thus could not be moved. All in all, it appeared safe enough. Even the lock, though small and intricate looking, was solid and of the sort that, as Holmes told us, was rather tricky to pick. 

Sherlock Holmes examined every square inch of the empty case and twice he stopped to pull out a small wooden cigar box and a pair of tweezers from his pocket to pick up something that needed further analysing. After more than an hour he had exhausted every nook and cranny of the room and the showcase and straightening his back turned towards the fidgeting curator, a triumphant smile on his haggard face.

“Now, Sir Andrew, I think I know where to find your thief. It really is pretty obvious I must say.”

“It is?” I stuttered, while Sir Andrew Wainwright only glanced at Sherlock Holmes, his expression clearly one of profound confusion. 

“Jacobs, the assistant?” he whispered after a few moments, but Holmes shook his head, the enigmatic smile deepening.

“How high is the insurance on this remarkable piece?” he counter-questioned.

The curator frowned: “Five-hundred thousand Pounds, which cost the museum an additional ten-thousand to purchase the policy. But at least we would have gotten that back, if not....” he gestured towards the empty showcase.

“I thank you for your time, Mr Wainwright. I will call on you tomorrow morning at half past nine. Good day.”

With that, Holmes turned around and was out of the door and down the flight of stairs before I could bid my adieu to the bewildered man. I, being used to my friends often erratic and often strange behaviour just shrugged my shoulders, reassuring him, that all was well, before hobbling after the detective and out of the monumental building. But too late, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

Halting a cab I made my way back to Baker Street and to my comfortable armchair which for the rest of the day I vowed not to leave. My leg reminded me in a most painful manner, that it would have been better for me to stay at home in the first place and standing around on it for more than an hour had at first only been painful, but now felt quite excruciating. The rain had ceased a little and had been replaced by a persistent mist from above that equally soaked the clothes and that was so fine, that not even an umbrella was of much use.

Pouring myself a glass of brandy and settling in front of the fire I could not help but think over the case. I had a list of suspects in my mind, including the curator himself and Jacobs, the assistant, even though Holmes had ruled him out already. The motive seemed to be the usual greed to possess something extraordinary and rare, for I doubted it could be sold easily. But how it had been done, I was none the wiser even as it began to darken outside and Mrs Hudson lay our table for dinner. It was like magic – unless of course a replica key had been used. But how had it been obtained? There were only two people who had a key and either was interested in preserving the medieval psalter, at which point I decided, that Sir Andrew most probably was not the culprit. 

It was long after dinner when Holmes appeared. He was in a good mood, his eyes sparkling with suppressed amusement and a tint of colour to his otherwise pale cheeks. Sherlock Holmes looked astonishingly well, though from the slight tremor in his hands I could see that his body once again craved the poison it had become used to, and there was a hint of cold sweat on his forehead. 

“You look as if you have solved the case, Holmes,” I remarked, at which he chuckled.

“Oh for sure I have, I had solved it already this morning. But it would not have done to just know who has taken it, obviously, the psalter would have to be returned as well.”

“And I take it, it will be returned?”

Again he chuckled: “Yes, it will be returned, Watson. It will be returned.”

“But who has taken it?” I could not help myself to ask.

“All in good time. For now, I think I will settle down and rest a bit, it has been a long day.”

The next morning when I came downstairs, Holmes was curled up in his armchair, his extinct clay pipe between his thin lips and his arms wrapped around his knees in an attempt to stop himself from trembling. He had a blanket around his thin frame and still seemed to shiver from the cold, his face was pale and his forehead sweaty. The sun had risen to a surprisingly clear morning and the golden beams of sunlight shone through the gaps in the still drawn curtains. As I opened them he shielded his face from the bright sunlight gasping as if in pain.

“Holmes?” I asked softly.

“Watson, do me a favour.” he stuttered.

“No, I will not give you any more of the drug,” I interjected him sternly.

He gave a sound akin to a chuckle before answering: “That is not what I had wanted to say, Doctor. What I wanted to ask of you was, that as soon as we have sorted out this case, that you remove me to the country, far away from any temptation so I will not in a fit of weakness start all over again.”

The look he gave me was determined and I was touched by his decision to follow through with it, now that a start had been made, even though it had been born in anger. With almost supernatural strength he got out of his armchair, on unsteady feet and went to dress himself. When he re-appeared for breakfast, his face was still unshaven.

“I think we will need to stop at a barbershop. I cannot keep my razor still enough to perform the task myself, I fear.” Sherlock Holmes admitted. 

“And what about the psalter? Where have you got it?”

“The Psalter, Watson is already back at the museum and locked in its showcase,” he answered, as he poured himself a cup of coffee and reached for one of our landladies famed crumpets which he spread with a generous amount of butter and strawberry jam.

Despite our stop at the barbers, we reached the museum five minutes early and yet were awaited by an impatient looking Sir Andrew Wainwright, who walked up and down the length of his office.

“Mr Holmes!” he cried out, as soon as his eyes fell on the detective, “What have you found? Please tell me you have found something.”

“As I have told you yesterday, the case was quite simple and yes, I have found something, but I suggest, we go upstairs to the exhibition hall so I can tell you exactly what has happened – and why.” 

Again we entered the room through the hidden side door. The room was only dimly lit as it was still closed to the public. But there was another, more fundamental difference to the previous day. There in its plain glass casing lay the pristine Psalter of Henry V in all its glory and as if it had never been missing from it. Seeing the illustration in all its magnificence for the first time I was speechless as to the vibrancy of the age-old colours on the yellow parchment. The blue of the sky and the green of the foliage complement one another most spectacularly and the astonishingly natural depiction of the saint in front of the equally detailed animals was breathtaking. 

“It is back!” the curator whispered as if he could not believe his own eyes. “It is back, but how can that be?”

Walking over to the showcase he bent over it and ran his fingers along the wooden frame of the casing. Holmes beside me smiled as he watched the astonished face of Sir Andrew. 

“As I have said yesterday, it was a rather simple case. I had not left the museum when I knew who had taken the psalter and during the course of the afternoon, I was proven right. From the state of the lock and the case, it was clear, that it must have been opened with a key. Now you told me, that there were only two keys in existence – your own one and the one kept by Lord Darby. You I ruled out pretty early on. You had no interest in stealing the book. You would be one of the first suspects and what would you do with the book anyway? You could not display it, nor could you sell it without danger of exposing yourself. Of course, there was the possibility of a duplicate key, but with looking at your key I realised, to have one made would be infinitely more difficult than just press it into a bar of soap, due to the fact, that it is a security key and not just a plain household one. One would need both sides and the exact width of the key on top of its overall shape. Also, had an imprint been made, there would have been the remnants of wax on the grooves of the bow, as it is all but impossible to get it out again without any difficulty. So, your key was not duplicated.”

“But there was a duplicate?” Wainwright wondered.

“No, there have always just been two keys. The ploy was well planned, but there is the rub, it was too well planned. When coming up with the scheme, Lord Darby gave too much thought as to how the Psalter could be taken without leaving any trace and it was this lack of a trace that was more conspicuous as any scratch mark or broken glass would have been.” Sherlock Holmes carried on calmly.

“Lord Darby?” both Wainwright and I cried out.

“Who else? He had the means and the motive.”

“But it is his book, what possible motive could he have to steal it?” I wondered aloud.

“The insurance money, my dear Watson. Half a million Pounds sterling he was in desperate need of. As it is, the man is known as a miser for a reason. His father has left him nothing but debts and a sister inclined to spend more than her annual allowance. And thus he decided that after every attempt of paying off his debts in an honest manner, he might just as well try the dishonest one. It is no coincidence that his debt is exactly the hight of the insurance sum, and even though the book is very valuable, I have brought it over to Southerby’s to have it evaluated and it is at most half this amount. So why was it insured at such high a sum?”

“His Lordship insisted on it. He said it was an heirloom and as such invaluable.”

“And yet he put exactly the sum on it, that he owed to his creditors. Again, he was too honest in his dishonesty.”

“With all this, I have to say I am sure, Lord Darby was not here yesterday. I would have recognised him, I believe.”

“And so you would, but he, of course, would not commit the crime in person, but hire a most talented young lady to do so for him. If you will open the door, you will find her waiting there, I believe.”

“A young lady?”

“As I have told you, there are many a dark secret hidden by a beautiful exterior and as it is, there were two long hairs stuck to the side of the showcase, where they had become trapped underneath the lid. I collected them, as you might remember, though I was spared the trouble of examining them closer.”

With that Sir Andrew unlocked the door that would let the public into the room and there, in front of it, stood a young mother, neatly dressed with a pram and her sleeping baby in it. She smiled pleasantly and then entered.

“May I introduce Miss Lucy Farrell.” Holmes introduced her, inviting her into the room.

“You must not forget that you have promised to let me go.” she reminded him as she entered.

“And so I will and so will Sir Andrew, as he will have no other choice if he intends to prevent a scandal,” Holmes replied suavely closing the door behind her.

“After I have left here yesterday, I went in search of this young lady. We have come across one another professionally several times before, but Miss Lucy has a knack to always involve herself in cases that are of such delicacy, that a revelation or even just the mere hint of what she is on about would be out of the question if not the one or other noble family wants to be involved in scandal. With the certainty that Lord Darby was the one behind the theft, I was sure she would be absolutely perfect to have it committed. With my general knowledge of the London underworld I asked my way around and at last, had an accurate idea where I might find her. I knocked on her door and as she opened, still in her damp walking costume, I could not resist admiring her baby… “ here Holmes smirked sarcastically. “The crime itself was not difficult to commit, with the large and bulky pram blocking the view, it was fairly easy for Miss Farrell to unlock the showcase and take out the psalter and also to bring it out of the room, without raising suspicion. All she had to do, was cover it with the blanket in the pram and no one would be any the wiser. As the baby was sleeping, who would be so heartless as to disturb it? Or think such an innocent looking young mother to be a renown criminal?”

“But how could she be sure the baby would not wake up, Holmes?” I could not help asking once again, looking from the case, over to the young woman, the perambulator with the peacefully slumbering child in it and my friend.

“Because it is no baby, but a wax figure – or better only the top part of it.” Was his answer, as he pulled back the blanket to reveal a small compartment where the child’s body should have been. The sight was positively grotesque.

“I think with this I have answered all of your questions. Just one more thing, Miss Lucy, if you would be so kind and hand over the key to Sir Andrew...” she did as he had asked her with a most disarming smile, then once more prepared the pram and walked out swiftly.

“I would have never believed it!” cried the flabbergasted curator, as he shook the detective's hand. “How can I ever repay you?”

But Sherlock Holmes, who had managed to pull himself together against all odds till now, was in no state to deal with business. Grabbing my arm he steadied himself and it took Wainwright and me some effort to get him into a hansom as all strength seemed to have been drained from his body. 

Three hours later Holmes, wretched, in physical pain and trembling violently, and I found ourselves on our way to the countryside. We had boarded the train towards Eastbourne to stay a few weeks in the Downs, till his addiction was under control and Sherlock Holmes back to his old brilliant self, it would be a rocky road, no doubt.


End file.
